Solaced by having this disclosure made,
The wounded man sank down in sleep. Irene,
Her bosom heaving, and with eyes aflame
Though tearless all, stood rooted by his side.[8]
Yes, he is dead, her lover! Those his arms;
His blazon that, no less renowned than ancient;
The very blood stains his! Nor was his death
Heroic, soldier-like. Struck from behind,
Without or cry or call for comrade’s help,
Roger was murdered. And there, sleeping, lies